Annual Report
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Five hundred years later, and the PTB aren't making the Slayers' jobs any easier.
1. Annual Report

**Title**: Annual Report

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: B:tVS, Firefly. _Five hundred years later, and Faith's still breaking in new Watchers_. 450 words.

**Spoilers**: B:tVS way post-"Chosen", Firefly sometime mid-series.

**Prompt**: twistedshorts marathon day 16; challenge pairing.

* * *

Faith shrugged and tossed back another shot of what passed for fine liquor in the Border-planet bar she'd arranged this year's meeting in. In all the centuries since she'd left Earth and the majority of its demons behind her, her routine hadn't changed; every twelve months or so she'd track down whatever Watcher currently had her name on his list, 'wave him with a time and place for a face-to-face sit-down, and get as drunk as she could while she spilled the roll call of deaths and dustings since her last report. She'd gotten an early start on the drinking today, due to the fact that her contact was already half an hour late.

This year's Watcher was an older guy named Book, a Shepherd who, according to rumor, had led a much darker life under another identity during the last war. He'd locked himself up in an abbey for several years after, then sprung himself a few months ago and gone walkabout, traveling in a Firefly. She could identify with that; the guilt of her own walk on the wild side had long since worn off, but she'd never forgot the despair or the drive to redeem herself that had led her to turn herself over to the police and then break out of jail just a few years later. Difference was, her experiences hadn't exactly led her back to the beliefs of her childhood, despite the irony of her name. As long as Book didn't preach at her, though, she had a feeling they'd get along just fine.

The noise in the bar quieted a little as the doors swung open, and she looked up to see a dark-skinned man walk in, an abundance of wiry gray hair clubbed back behind his head. There were no visible weapons on him, but the wary appraisal in his eyes as he scanned the bar's patrons and the self-awareness in the way he held his surprisingly muscular body told her that he was as far from harmless as a guy could get. Most of the Watchers she'd met since she and B had been double-whammied into immortality by Willow's spell with the Scythe had been at least competent at fighting, a legacy of the New Council rules that Giles had put into place five hundred years ago. Few of them had ever been in actual battle, though, and it showed when they tried to make conversation with her- they had nothing in common.

Not so this new guy, she could already tell. Hopefully, he'd stick around for a lot of years to come. It would be nice, having someone else besides B around with a chance in hell of understanding her.

-x-


	2. Begetting Violence

**Title**: Begetting Violence 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: B:tVS, Firefly. _It hadn't taken Book long to discover the why for himself_.

**Spoilers**: B:tVS way post-"Chosen", Firefly mid-"SERENITY".

**Notes**: It occurs to me that "Skin" probably fits in this universe, too.

* * *

"They'll come at you sideways," Book said, thinking of the Operative he'd known best. His reason for serving; his reason for retiring. His reason for damn near everything.

"It's how they think," he continued, recalling the deceptively shallow facade he'd help the young man construct, overlaying a core of focused, merciless strength. "It's how they move. Sidle up and smile, hit you where you're weak."

Parliament had learned that much from the Slayers, if nothing else. A Slayer's role was not only to kill, but to deceive that which she was sent to destroy into exposing itself for the deathblow. When the Council had tired of subjecting itself to Allied oversight and gone to ground in the rim worlds, the government had created the Operatives and Blue Hands as a countermeasure and replacement, patrolling the inner worlds in the Slayers' place for threats the Alliance wasn't officially equipped to handle. Adaptability, determination and guile were critical parts of each new Operative's training.

Independence-- and the Slayer tenet that discriminated human targets from non-human ones-- were _not_.

"Sort of man they're like to send believes hard," he added, grimly. "Kills and never asks why."

He didn't think he'd ever forget the way his daughter's face had looked when he'd reached her, the day after she'd called him-- obliviously-- with the weighty secret that she'd been Chosen. Her expression had been strangely peaceful despite the dark hole in her forehead, almost as though she'd simply fallen asleep, but he'd known better. The hands he'd trained, the mind he'd shaped, the man he'd distanced himself from his own family to guide-- his own Operative had erased what she'd become.

It hadn't taken him long to discover the why for himself. The Alliance had feared not only what she might accomplish among the enemy, but also the detrimental influence she might have on those close to her-- justifiably, as it happened. Book's atrophied conscience had reawakened that day, too late to do any good, and he'd resigned his position immediately. He'd stolen everything he could and carried it straight into the arms of the Handlers' opposites, though he'd expected to meet his own death at any moment; he still expected the job would be finished one day, but had taken the unexpected reprieve to do what he could to make reparations.

The Watchers had kept him close at first, tied to a research position in a local monastery, but after several years of loyalty they'd allowed him his freedom again. They'd asked only that he continue his records and research-- the 'Verse was a big place, and they needed more trained eyes out in it-- and that he watch for a 'wave from any of a short list of names. It hadn't seemed like much; few demons had attempted the long journey from Earth-that-Was, and there were only three Slayers to keep track of at any given time, the representative of the current line and the two Ancients who had survived the fall of humanity's homeworld. Book had been grateful for the assignment.

He'd only ever been called to meet one of them: Faith, the younger and reportedly saner of the Ancient pair. Talking to her, taking down her annual Slaying statement, had been an astonishing experience; despite her still-youthful appearance, he had never once been tempted to forget her true age. The only other person he'd ever seen with eyes as old and knowing as hers was little River-- a realization that had worried him at the time, and deservedly so, given Mal's report of recent events.

Meeting Faith had been a vivid reminder of what the Operatives should have been, what they failed to be, and how he'd ignored his own rebuilt ideals by joining the crew of _Serenity_. Violence begat violence, and a soul as worn and blood-soaked as his needed no further corruption. He hadn't been able to stay aboard any longer. Now, however, he couldn't but wonder if he should have delayed his departure, if his presence at River's side might have been of some use in this situation.

"It's of interest to me how much you seem to know about that world," Mal interrupted his thoughts, shrugging off the caution and concern Book was trying to impress upon him.

"I wasn't born a Shepherd, Mal," Book replied, wishing that just this once the man would bend his damnfool neck before someone tried to break it for him.

"Have to tell me about that, sometime," was Mal's only reply.

"No. I don't," Book said heavily.

He'd already said enough. It was up to these youngsters, now; there was no time to tell them the truth, even if they were inclined to believe it. All he could do was pray God would help them.

They were surely going to need it.

--


	3. Paying Respects

**Title**: Paying Respects

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: B:tVS, Firefly. _Faith had a perfect right to grieve there, too_. 1000 words.

**Spoilers**: B:tVS way post-"Chosen"; Firefly post-"SERENITY" movie. Vague quote from Angel 4.15 "Orpheus".

**Notes**: Part of my "Sidle Up and Smile" (Ancient Slayers) 'verse, which also includes "Knocked Down" and "Skin".

* * *

Faith approached the group clustered around the new headstones with a wary step. It had been more than a week since the deaths of the people who'd just now been buried there, long enough for word to've spread to any ears with an interest in hearing it, but she didn't guess the mourners would have thought about it enough to expect company at the gravesite.

Well, company they were about to have regardless, she thought, crunching closer across the dry, rocky landscape, a single, slender object clutched in one hand. She had a perfect right to grieve there, too. More of one than anyone but their Captain had any idea of; though he'd probably long since forgotten all the Slayer bedtime stories she'd told him when his mother wasn't listening.

Shame. He'd been a cute kid, and he'd certainly grown into a fine, fine man, Faith thought, running her eyes over his muscular bod as he and the others turned to face her. She had yet to find a man in all her centuries of wandering who could put a stop to the itching in her feet; neither had Buffy, really, though the elder Slayer still tried one on for size every generation or so.

Even if that theoretical perfect man was still out there, though, Captain Malcolm Reynolds certainly wouldn't be it. Even if she hadn't known him when he was still in diapers, he was one of B's kids, and like all of her line tended to collect strong women like iron filings to a magnet. Faith wasn't all that interested in competing with _any_ woman for her man's attention, even the sisterly kind-- and if that Companion standing with him was harboring _sisterly_ feelings Faith would be very surprised.

"Aunt Fay?" Mal exclaimed as he got a good look at her face; the rest of his crew glanced at each other in surprise at his words, but relaxed just enough for Faith's palm to stop sweating against the smooth wood in her hand. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hey, kiddo," she replied, grimly. "I heard about what happened. Hope you don't mind; I'm here to pay my respects."

"To whom?" the Companion asked, delicate brow furrowed as she scanned Faith head to toe.

Faith parried the look with a wry smirk. "Like it's any of _your_ business."

"Now, wait a minute," the other muscular guy in the group objected. "Did you just say she was your _aunt_?_ Ai ya!_ If I had an aunt looked like that...!"

Faith turned her smirk on the speaker as he smarted off at his captain. If it hadn't been for the merc's busted wing, he would have cut a fine figure, too; there wasn't much wasted flesh on him, and he stood like a man very aware of his own personal power. Not just his fists, but what he could do with his weapons, too. Pity there weren't too many Watchers built like him these days.

"_Bi zui_, Jayne," Mal hissed, then returned his attention to his mother's 'sister'. "No, 'course I don't mind," he said, awkwardly. "It's just-- I ain't seen you since before the War."

He swallowed at that, and said no more; but Faith could guess what he was thinking. Her presence had reminded him of his mother, who'd also been declared dead in the bombing of Shadow nearly a decade before. She wasn't here to blow the whistle on 'Elizabeth Reynolds', though; she hadn't even known Book had ever traveled with Mal's crew until after the Miranda 'wave, when she'd tried to track the Shepherd down for a talk.

That association was going to come in handy, later, though; the Council was still locked in its hands-off dance with the Alliance despite the recent trespasses of a zealous Operative, and Faith's blood was up and clamoring for vengeance. She had a feeling Mal would be at the center of whatever new movement rose up to oppose the corrupt government, and she pretty much intended to throw her lot in with them, as a private party.

But that was for later. Right now, she had other concerns. "We'll talk later," she assured him. "I parked my shuttle over by your boat; how 'bout I come over and shoot the shit with you when I'm done here?"

At that, Mal glanced over at the quietly regal woman in white, who carried herself with authority despite her obvious grief; she had to be his second in command. The pair seemed to reach a conclusion without any verbal exchange, and Mal turned back to his 'aunt' with a confirming nod. "Seems to me that'll work out just fine. We was just about done here ourselves; we break atmo tomorrow morning, but you're welcome aboard _Serenity_ any time before she leaves."

"Thanks, Mal." She reached a hand out to him; they clasped forearms in about as much of a hug as Faith ever gave anyone these days, then turned to go their separate ways.

Faith felt the eyes of all five of Mal's crew-- including the ones who hadn't spoken-- as they followed him back toward their Firefly transport, but only one made any comment as they passed her: the youngest, a wisp of a girl that reminded Faith jarringly of some of the Potentials she and B had sheltered that last month in Sunnydale.

"You roll the dice. Pay the odds," the girl said, all big eyes and long, dark, tangled hair.

"You're a seer," Faith said in surprise, a little chilled by the sound of her own words, distorted in the girl's mouth.

"There'll be a general wind theme," the girl continued, nodding firmly, then turned to rejoin the procession wending away from the graves.

"God, I wish I believed that," Faith murmured, watching them go. Then she turned to the plinth bearing Derrial Book's name and set her stake beneath his holographic image.

"Hey, there, Watcher-man," she said, softly, and began one last recitation of her deeds.

-x-


	4. Five By Five, Sister

**Title**: Five By Five, Sister

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: B:tVS/Firefly. _Buffy looked up as Faith reached the table, a faintly amused expression in her kohl-outlined eyes._ 1600 words.

**Spoilers**: Firefly; "Serenity" (2005); the last seasons of Buffy & Angel.

**Notes**: For the Twistedshorts August Challenge. An interlude in the "Sidle Up and Smile" 'verse.

* * *

It was maybe three weeks after Faith met Malcolm Reynolds again on Haven that she finally settled enough of her affairs to rent a hangar on Aberdeen for a while. It was a quick hop from there to Beaumonde, where she'd arranged to meet him and his crew, and easier on the pocketbook than a garage on the wealthier world. Her current cover, Charity Chase- a cloth merchant from Boros- wasn't that high in the instep, and she wasn't about to tempt official interest in her nephew's direction just because it would have been more convenient to park her ship closer to the pick-up.

'Want, Take, Have' wasn't exactly a survivable motto anymore, not unless you had Parliamentary favor. The Allied Parliament wasn't anyone's idea of a fairy godmother, though; they weren't even as benevolent as Richard Wilkins had been, and Faith had a long memory for what that kind of favor cost.

Her shuttle docked about two hours before _Serenity_ was due to arrive. On any other visit she'd have burned the extra time roaming the dockside shopping district, but peacekeepers in purple uniforms had started patrolling the Xian Wu and Qing Long systems more heavily since the Miranda broadwave. The last thing she needed was to catch the eye of an older Alliance officer who might remember the way things had gone down on Shadow. She'd made quite a name for herself in the local defence force there as Faith Harris, before they'd given up on ground action and bombed the planet to rubble. She and Elizabeth Reynolds, currently known as Xiaochen Williams- not that Faith ever called B anything but Buffy to her face- had both been listed as casualties, and that was the only reason they didn't still have live warrants on the Cortex.

Luckily, Faith had an in with the hot twins that ran the Maidenhead. They'd been overlooked in the sweep that took down most of the Independent-friendly dealers in the quadrant, and had been making money hand over fist ever since trying to keep up with the trade. She'd saved them from a predatory demon several years before, and helped them ward their bar against hostile non-humans later. They always had a glass of Ngkapei for her whenever she passed through, and they liked Mal well enough not to shoot him on sight, which was more than could be said for most of the _other_ surviving brokers.

She eeled down the stairs into the bar without bothering to stop and lock her weapons; she knew the scanners would pick up the blades she was carrying, but the facial recognition software had been programmed to ignore her, and the autoalarms only went off if someone tried to sneak a gun past the entryway. She nodded to the barkeep, then made a scan of the corner tables, hoping to spend a couple of hours hanging out with one of the hosts. Fanty really did live up to his full name- Fantastic- and his brother Mingojerry wasn't half bad company, either.

Her hopeful mood crashed and burned, though, when she caught sight of someone else lurking at the brothers' preferred table, idly tracing one finger around the rim of a delicate teacup. The dim light and the fans fencing off the area obscured the woman's profile- but Faith didn't need to see the color of her eyes or the exact shape of her mouth to recognize her sister when she saw her. She took a deep breath, shook off the chill of misgiving that shot through her nerves in that first instant of recognition, and approached the shadowed nook with a relaxed, casual stride.

Buffy looked up as she reached the table, a faintly amused expression in her kohl-outlined eyes. "Long time no see," she said, lifting the cup to Faith's presence.

"Ditto," Faith nodded. "This a private party, or you up for some company today?"

One slender leg kicked forward under the table, and the chair opposite B's scraped back a foot or so.

Faith took that as invitation and turned the chair around, straddling the seat and folding her arms over the back as she sat. "You're looking good," she said. "Trolling for a new husband?"

She'd learned to judge the state of Buffy's mind by her bodyweight; B grew lean and whipcord mean in the bad times, after breakups or disasters or too much time spent brooding. She never really got plump- or even happy, not since they'd buried Dawnie back before the Migration- but her face and her curves filled out a little whenever she found something to keep her occupied, enough to recall the vibrant teenager Faith had both loved and hated all those years ago. She was in good shape today, the first time Faith had seen her dressed to kill since they'd left Shadow.

"Not this time," Buffy said, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Believe it or not, I'm finally back on the payroll."

Faith stiffened at that. "_Shensheng de gaowan_," she blurted, then snorted at Buffy's raised eyebrows. "One of these days you've really got to pick up a little Mandarin, B. What changed your mind? I thought you cut off contact with the Council thirty years ago."

Buffy shrugged, then took a long sip from the teacup. Anyone else, she would have assumed they were drinking something a little stronger than tea; but B never really had learned to hold her liquor. She favored a strong, smoky blend of leaves that she swore was as good as coffee now that beans were so hard to come by, but Faith couldn't stand the stuff.

"Same reason I left it all behind in the first place," Buffy finally said, watching Faith closely for her reaction.

_Kao!_ Fuck.

Faith's hands tightened on the chairback, hard enough that she could hear the wood creaking in protest. "And what's Mal got to do with the Council?" she asked, as coolly as she could.

"I don't know, maybe you should tell me," Buffy replied, tartly. She held Faith's gaze long enough to make her point, then looked away, letting down the façade a little. "Miranda wasn't the reason I came back, though. Zabuto tracked me down several monnths ago to look into a Potential who broke her contract and ran away to Sihnon, then turned con artist and ran again. I'd've told him to look you up instead, but he'd sent the list of her victims with it, and..." She shrugged.

Faith put two and two together, and came up with that hilarious story Mal's merc had told her that started with Mal in a dress and ended with her nephew bare-ass naked on Bellerophon. "You're kidding me. You're the reason Yolanda what's-her-name never came back for revenge?"

Buffy smirked, and took another sip of her tea.

"And let me guess, now that they've cooked you new records and you don't have a kid to protect, you decided you might as well keep your hand in," Faith sighed.

"I still _do_ have a kid to protect," Buffy disagreed. "The Council's already got their eye on him. I kept him out of my personnel records, same as all my other kids, when he was born- but they actually asked me to sign on board _Serenity_ as a passenger slash bodyguard." Wry humor lit the depths of her eyes. "Since he's a symbol now, and all; and I should know what _that's_ like."

Faith tipped her head back, shaking her head as she stared at the smoky ceiling. "_Zao gao_! Of course they did." She chuckled, darkly. "You know, _I_ was going to go radio silent for this? I didn't think the council would approve. Why do they _really_ want you there? To help him? Or to stop him from making more waves?"

"They haven't said one way or the other," Buffy shrugged. "They've got some good people, now. But they did when Travers was running it, too. And he's _my_ son." Her hand tightened on the cup, knuckles whitening; Faith winced in anticipation, but she stopped just short of shattering it.

And that alarmed Faith as much as anything else about the whole conversation. Buffy was angry- but she was also fully in control of her power and motivated, a combination Faith hadn't seen on her since Dawnie was alive. "Then how come you never told him you survived?" she asked.

Buffy's face twisted a little, and she looked away, words and body language all oblique to the question. "I don't do this. You _know_ I don't do this, and you know _why_ I don't do this. But it's too late now. I had him for _twenty years_, Faith."

Faith scrubbed a hand over her face. Yeah, she could see that. All her drifting, all that dressing up lives like an endless series of dolls and running when things got deep- she'd been fractured so badly by her losses back on Earth, she'd never wanted to face pain like that again. Mal, though- Buffy hadn't been able to leave him, like she had all her other children while they were still too young to remember her.

"Fine way to protect him," she said, slowly. "He's going to be _furious_ when he sees you. And with _me_ for not telling him."

"Better furious and alive than a martyr caught between the Alliance and the Council," Buffy said, grimly. "You with me on this?"

"What do you _think_?" Faith leaned forward and reached across the table. "Five by five, sister."

Buffy reached back, strong hand gripping hers, and smiled a wintry smile.

-x-


End file.
